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Standard Introduction
I am a fan
HP Lovecraft. Not his god-awful racism
of course, but the fact that he wrote in such a stilted un marketable way. I think it was Neil Gaiman (Though I can’t
find the interview) that described HP’s work as "a churning morass of
adjectives". But the ideas in the
stories, the mysterious and weird parts that lend themselves so well too modern
horror are often great.
The idea
of humanity not being important at all, that the universe is chaotic and
hostile, and that even knowing about these things leave the protagonists of the
stories insane from the knowledge, those are all cool.
What is
also cool is that all of HP Lovecraft’s writings are public domain. They can be re-printed, referenced, and even
re-written by those (like me) who are fans of the ideas but want to make the
writing cleaner, or tighter, or just less racist. (Seriously, why did you name the cat that
Howie? Did you think it was funny?)
Today’s Entry
I figured
I would take one of his more accessible stories and rewrite it a bit as an
experiment. “Memory” is a post-apocalyptic
fiction about a pair of monsters dwelling in a ruin. I imagine had Lovecraft taken more time with
it and put it to verse it could have made an excellent poem, I too did not
spend that much time on it. I did take
the time to clean it up a lot, reordering the sentences to a more modern flow. I hope you enjoy it.
If you want to do this yourself, here is a link to HP Lovecraft’s complete works, or at least the horror ones. I believe he wrote some
romance stories too and I have no idea where to find those.
Anyway,
here is the story.
Memory
In the
valley of Nis, the waning moon shines thinly.
The accursed light tearing with feeble horns thru the lethal foliage of
a great golden tree. Deeper within the valley, where that light reaches not, shift
and lurk forms unseen and those best left un beheld.
Stinking
and vile is the herbage on each slope. Where thorny vines and creeping poisoned
leaves crawl amidst the stones of ruined palaces, twisting tightly about broken
columns and strange monoliths, and heaving up marble pavements laid by
forgotten hands.
In trees
that grow gigantic in crumbling courtyards leap little apes, while in and out
of deep treasure-vaults writhe serpents and scaly things without names, venom
dripping from lipless fanged mouths.
Stones sleep
beneath coverlets of dank moss, vast and mighty were the walls from which they
fell. For all time did their builders
erect them, for futures so distant as to exist beyond imagining, and in sooth
they still serve nobly. Beneath them the
grey toad makes his habitation.
At the deepest
bottom of the valley lies the river Than, whose waters are weed choked and
nearly all slime. From hidden springs this
river rises and to subterranean grottoes it flows. The Demon of the Valley knows not why its
waters are red, nor whither they are bound.
The Genie
that haunts the moonbeams coxed the Demon of the Valley to converse, saying,
"I am old, and forget much. Tell me
the deeds, the character, and the names of them who built these things of
Stone."
"I am
Memory,” the Demon replied. “I am wise
in lore of the past, but I too am old. These beings were like the waters of the
river Than. Not to be understood. Their deeds I recall not, for they were but of
the moment. Their aspect I recall dimly,
it was like to that of the little apes in the trees. Their name I recall clearly, for it rhymed
with that of the river. These beings of
yesterday were called Man."
With that
reply the Genie flew back to the thin horned moon, and the Demon looked
intently at a little ape mulling about in a tree that grew in a crumbling
courtyard.
______________________________
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